


And He Takes

by upottery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slow Death, Unnamed Disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upottery/pseuds/upottery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn’t one to go quietly. Never has been, even in the face of death, even with it as immediate as a pair of jaws two inches away and smirking. He mocks it, as far away as now, months and months, just like if it was right in his face, and smirking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Takes

**Author's Note:**

> **OKAY THIS IS THE LAST WARNING:** This is a death fic, Stiles dies, so if you don't want to read Stiles dying, turn back now, I swear I don't mind. I ultimately want your happiness, and if my fic contributes to it in some weird way, that's awesome! I apologize for my affinity for run-on sentences and I hope you enjoy! As nearly always, this is for my dear friend [emily](http://sonnyscorleone.tumblr.com%22).

He isn’t one to go quietly. Never has been, even in the face of death, even with it as immediate as a pair of jaws two inches away and smirking. He mocks it, as far away as now, months and months, just like if it was right in his face, and smirking. His lips are strung garland across his cheeks, grinning with Christmas light teeth, and bows for dimples, twist tying himself into a bright decoration as he’s always been, but now with months and months, like an hourglass that is nailed down, he is drained.

His caramel eyes pour over everyone, layering his particular brand of confection like a lie, like if he covers the bones with enough fat no one will notice until it’s too late and their teeth have already cracked. This leaves his eyes a matte, flat brown like a beaten path in a half-dead forest, and every single inch of him is begging to be cut down. His bones don’t hold as sturdy anymore, branches instead of trunks, and with every gust of wind he shakes. No one notices, but most of them aren’t even looking. They say they’re sorry and he nods, they say they’re praying for him and he nods, but he is still too small for his clothes and he still struggles up the stairs.

Derek can see it, though; see him moving as a wraith, with his long fingers curved over the banister on the second floor. Derek thinks they’re more like bones now, and his skeleton reeks of disease, a heavy weight of rotten sweets on his tonsils, a pie that was abandoned on the kitchen sill in favor of saying a final goodbye, and the fruit in it decays in a matter of days. They stare at each other, and Stiles looks away after a few moments, as if he doesn’t want Derek studying the recent gaunt look under his cheekbones, and Derek sees it anyway, wrinkling his nose against the stench of shame.

Neither moves until Derek takes the steps three at a time, because the sun finally came out, and it’s spilling through the window till there’s nothing he can see but Stiles. He feels everything that can’t be articulated, thoughts weaving like basket makers on a street that no one stops to admire, later stuffed with books that turn to ashes after less than a lifetime. He rests his palms underneath Stiles’ chin, listening to him breathe sharply when Derek slides one of his hands to cradle the back of Stiles’ head, and the other to cup his jaw. 

He leans in, Stiles’ heartbeat the flitting wings of a hummingbird, beating with a determination, pushing blood that can only be justified in its ability to still keep Stiles alive, and otherwise cells dipped in bittersweets and putrefactions. When he kisses Stiles, it isn’t warming, or charmed, but he grips his fingers tighter nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” He says, like it means anything, and leans their foreheads together. Stiles looks down and tears are caught in his eyelids when he blinks. 

-

When Stiles asks him, it sounds like a joke. They’re sitting in Stiles’ room, and Derek is on the edge of the bed, looking at Stiles’ shoulders through his shirt. He’s hunched over a book, and now his breath comes softer through his persistently clenched teeth, Derek can smell his pain. It’s like he’s snorting cayenne pepper, and yet he wrenches his eyes shut against the burn and doesn’t make a sound. He hears the book slam shut, and Stiles is suddenly twisting his desk chair around, and he looks like he’s ready to commit to his life. He opens his eyes to bring his gaze to Derek’s, chapped lips opening and closing, smacking and challenging, it’s an invitation, and Derek doesn’t bite the line, terrified. When he licks them its rain returning to the desert, pallid as they are, reddening now between his teeth. 

“So are you gonna fuck me or not?”

“What?”

“Derek, I’m going out one way or another, but you’re going to have sex with me before then.”

“You don’t think I’m actually going to say yes, do you?”

“Of course I fucking do.” 

And Derek does.

Who is he to deny the dying wishes of someone he thinks he could love? There isn’t enough time to learn if he actually could. 

-

It’s not beautiful when they fuck. Stiles gasps around his moans, but they’re dry and cracked, and Derek is collapsing under the guilt, sweating from more than the exertion, but he’s taking it shallow, and slowly, wanting Stiles to melt into his hands, biting his lip and never forgiving himself. Stiles has his heels buried in the back of Derek’s thighs, asking for more, telling Derek he wants it deeper, telling him not to be so gentle. Derek doesn’t comply, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, abruptly forcing back tears, and he can taste now, the death of him. 

He stops, rolling onto his side, laying his head on Stiles’ chest, and he can’t bear to look at his ribs, but he can feel them under his cheek, prominent and the skin is stretched like Stiles is a drum that has a rhythm that ends. 

“I’m not going to break, you know.” It’s soft; he’s running his hands through Derek’s hair.

“Except you are breaking.”

Derek lets himself cry, and lets Stiles keep his bones pressed against his scalp.

“We’ll try again, later.”

-

He takes and he takes and he takes. Takes breaths of life and purpose with him, he is a plant in this dirt that refused to grow, roots taking hold instead in death, all of him sapping away like a maple tree. His hands are candied caramel apples that melted into messes on a hot day, spread and useless now, he cannot feel the insistent grip that Derek has on him, indomitable, and Derek’s entire posture is a refusal. 

They are alone, Stiles had asked everyone to leave, letting himself crumble under the Sheriff kissing his forehead, and Stiles only now drops his act, puts away his decorations, breathing deeper and sounding hollow. 

He smiles softly, and Derek presses his thumb against Stiles’ pulse.

“Weirdly enough,” Stiles coughs, “I do love you.”

Derek leans into him, pressing his lips against Stiles’ softly, and it’s a reassurance.

And it’s also a goodbye.

He goes, unlike himself, quietly.


End file.
